Poisoned
by Rainflakes
Summary: Sam knew it was completely irrational, but sometimes he thought he could /feel/ the blood traveling throughout his body. It felt disgusting. Unclean. Wrong. Those were the days where he needed to remind himself to breathe, because all he could focus on was the poison that had been running through his veins since he turned six months old. (subtle wincest)


**WARNINGS**: Implied torture (non-graphic), PTSD, **subtle sibling incest**. Bolded because for some reason, people like to skip past the warnings.  
This one-shot is mostly about Sam and demon blood, etc, but just keep in mind that there is implications of incest.

Spoilers up to season 7

If you don't like incest, please just don't read it. Complaints are annoying and I really don't want to read about how "incest is wrong" and "that's disgusting". I've heard it all, guys.

Takes place when Sam was still suffering from hallucinations.

Critiques are welcome and fully appreciated.

Sam could categorize the quality of his days as 'good' or 'bad'. There were no 'okay' days. It was not complex. It did not require any thinking on his part. He can usually tell what kind of day it's going to be the moment he wakes up each morning. Instinct, maybe. He was never able to figure it out.

Good days were the days where he could focus on what was in front of him. Any feelings of filthiness could be brushed off and ignored about as easily and efficiently as breathing. He did not get distracted on hunts and he could listen to the medical examiner when they were inspecting a victim. He could slay a demon and not even bat an eye.

On some days, though, he felt like an asthmatic who had come down with a nasty case of pneumonia. He knew it was completely irrational, but sometimes he thought he could _feel_ the blood traveling throughout his body. It felt disgusting; unclean. _Wrong._ Those were the days where he needed to remind himself to breathe, because all he could focus on was the poison that had been running through his veins since he turned six months old. Because why breathe when you're infected with something so dark? Killing demons on days like those did not give him his usual satisfaction. It almost felt immoral, like he was slaughtering his own kind. Hypocritical because he's still breathing.

Today is a bad day.

White noise is useless. The sound of the TV is worse than the silence, because he knows he's trying to distract himself. He'll end up focusing so hard on _trying _to focus that he won't even realize that the attempt is futile, and then he feels even worse than before.

Sam is no fool. He understands that wallowing in self-pity is only going to make him hate himself even more. But whatever, he doesn't care.

He scratches absently at his arm. It's pointless, of course. That itchy, painful feeling hidden under layers of skin isn't real. Phantom, he thinks it's called. The sensation reminded him of a rash, except no amount of skin cream could help him. He remembers that siren he and Dean hunted a few years ago. _Supernatural STD_, Dean had remarked. Recalling that conversation, Sam chuckles. It's not funny.

The infection inside him might not be an STD, but it sure as hell felt like it sometimes. Irritating, problematic, and stressful. Dirty.

The motel they're staying at isn't as bad it could be. At least this shithole has room to walk around, and clean sheets. The window is pretty decent sized too, but the faded orange wallpaper is more than a little sickening, and is giving him a headache.

"The color reminds you of the cage, don't it Sam?"

Sam stiffens. Letting out a sigh, he turns away from the hallucination and pulls a chair up to stare out the window. Outside, snow is falling heavily. Not surprising, considering it's mid-December and they're in Maine. The snowfall should seem peaceful, but the melancholy he was already feeling deepened into despair.

Lucifer is next to him now. His eyes held an evil glint, but he murmured, "Poor Sam. Why do you always have to feel this way?"

Glowering, Sam remains silent. He knows what's coming. It's no longer a shock anymore when his hallucination brings this up. No longer terrifying when Lucifer says in a sarcastic and dangerously soft voice, "you know you don't have to live like this. You've got guns stashed all over the place."

Sam never likes to admit it, but Lucifer is right. He could end it all with a single pull of the trigger, if he wanted to. And sometimes, like right now, he really wants to.

A sinister whisper, "then why don't you?"

_It's not that simple._ Sam doesn't dare speak out loud. He's afraid of what the words will sound like. Hearing the pathetic desperation in his voice will only make him feel that much worse.

"Make it that simple." Not a command, but an encouragement. Lucifer stopped being commanding months ago. Instead, he's become sympathetic and Sam realizes just how dangerous that is. He feels more compelled to listen to soft voices and understanding eyes.

Maybe it's because he's a coward, or maybe he can't leave Dean alone in a world as corrupt as this, but he knows that he can't do it. No matter how tired he gets, or how much he hates himself for everything he's done, he knows he can't do it as long as Dean is alive.

"It's always Dean, isn't it?" Lucifer mutters. "It's not like you won't see him again. Soulmates, remember? You get to share a heaven? Happily ever after?"

Sam's chest still does a funny fluttering thing whenever he's reminded that Dean is his soulmate. He wonders what it would be like to be dead, for real. No more getting dragged back down to earth, no more demon deals. Paradise, maybe? Sam's not sure he believes in paradise anymore, but the thought is nice.

Damn. Leave it to Lucifer to make killing yourself feel like fucking Christmas.

Besides, he's not so sure he has a place in Heaven anymore. Maybe when he dies, he's gonna end up right back in Lucifer's cage.

Grimacing, he brings his hand up to his chest and digs his thumb into the unhealed scar there. The pain is sharp and he inhales deeply, not quite a gasp, but it does the trick and the hallucination flickers and then disappears.

He turns to look out the window again. The snow is picking up, falling heavier and faster than it was five minutes ago. He remembers the weather report this morning, and can vaguely recall a middle aged woman on the TV warning the public about a blizzard that's estimated to hit at around 5:30 PM.

Looking around, he locates the clock on the wall. 5:09 PM. Jesus, is it already that late? He could have sworn it was just past noon.

Another irritating symptom of his "bad days" is that he loses track of time. Immediately, his thoughts stray to Dean and his heart beats a little faster. His brother had gone out a few hours ago for a supply run, and he still isn't back. Granted, the nearest store is 45 minutes away, but that doesn't stop him from letting out a pathetic whine of concern.

Now that Lucifer is gone, Sam almost regrets sending him away. He can appreciate being alone on most days, but days like today leave him in desperate need of attention. When left to his own devices, his mind wanders back and again, he feels that sickeningly impure substance crawling sluggishly throughout his body.

He shudders.

He remembers an argument he had had with Dean long ago. _I've got demon blood in me, Dean! This disease, pumping through my veins and I can't ever rip it out or scrub it clean. _God, that must have been what, 3 years ago? He can't remember.

He considers his words now. It's funny how you never really know the full extent of what you're saying until it's over and done with. He wonders what it would feel like to actually be able to wash your blood clean. A gift from God, he muses, except God's not here so he shoves the thought into the ever-growing figurative pile of empty dreams.

The door clicks behind him. Half of him wants to jump up and pull Dean into his arms and say _dude do you have any beer._ The other half is telling him to stay down, you pathetic child. Can't you see he's got his arms full.

Whatever.

Standing up, he walks toward his brother and helps him with the bags. "What took you so long?" Sam complains.

Dean snorts. "It's snowing like hell out there, man. I didn't want to wreck my car. Also, didn't you hear about the blizzard?" Sam nods. "Well I figured we're going nowhere soon, so I got us enough food and stuff to last us at least a week."

Aw fuck. "We should have chosen a better motel to stay in," Sam jokes halfheartedly, eyes straying to that ugly yet all too familiar faded orange wallpaper. His heart beat a little faster as he remembers the events in Hell. Faded orange was the only color he could see when Lucifer and Micheal decided it was time to give him his weekly oops-we-set-you-on-fire. They always pretended it was an accident, for some reason, and only 'put him out' when he was a shivering mess on the ground. Since he could never die, it always lasted for 10 minutes, minimum, and up to two hours. His vision was impaired by the pain and terror back then, so the brilliant flames melting his skin were muted down to an unimpressive hue of orange.

Dean must have caught the fearful expression on Sam's face, because he takes a step toward him and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "What is it?"

Swallowing, Sam lets out a shaky breath. "The wallpaper," he says quietly. His heart starts beating faster and he feels his eyes watering slightly. _Don't cry, idiot. _

Dean looks momentarily confused, and then understanding lights up his eyes. He's learned by now that Sam has a wide variety of triggers, and he knows that they're usually pretty odd and not what you'd expect to see from a trauma victim. "What the hell did they do to you," Dean murmurs, almost too quiet to hear, but Sam catches it anyway.

He knows it shouldn't, but the words sting a little. It sounded a little cynical, but Sam figures he's just being too sensitive and brushes it off. Instead, he watches as Dean starts tearing the wallpaper off.

"What are you-"

"It's okay. The color is ugly as shit anyway," Dean replies. "I figure we'll owe the motel an extra 50 bucks, but we can win that back next time we find a pool game."

The gray walls behind the paper are hideous, but Sam can live with that. He feels a rush of gratitude toward his brother and does his best to put on a smile.

"Thanks," he says, but his voice is a little hoarse.

"Don't sweat it." After Dean 'discards' the wallpaper under one of the beds and out of sight, he goes back to rummaging through the bags. He tosses Sam a beer, and then his face breaks out into a huge grin. "Oh, dude! Guess what I found!" When Sam tilts his head, Dean pulls out a box. "Blue label!" The excitement on his face is adorable, but Sam is too busy starting at the box.

"Holy shit man, where'd you score that?" Sam asks, only half aware that he sounds as though he just witnessed the second coming of Christ.

"Liquor store on the way back from the supermarket. I wanted to get us a nice bottle of whiskey that would last until the storm blew over and the snow clears enough for us to get out of here. Ran into this instead, and it was on _sale!_" Dean's eyes are practically glowing. "Only 60 bucks. You wouldn't believe how lucky I was to get this. I mean, when have you ever heard of Johnnie Walker Blue selling for 60 bucks? There were only two left when I found this. Hey, paws off!"

Sam retracts the hand that was reaching for the bottle when Dean slaps it away. "What?" he snaps, feeling a little defensive.

Dean's eyes hold a lightness to them, but his voice sounds slightly annoyed when he says, "This is not your average, everyday run-of-the-mill drink, dude. This is gold, and we are not gonna waste it all away. Not tonight."

Rolling his eyes, Sam scoffs. "Might as well frame it and carry it around for the rest of our lives. Hang it up in every motel we stay in. We'll just stare at it." To be completely honest, Sam could really use a drink right now, and the sight of the bottle is making his mouth water. Cracking open his beer, he takes a long swig. Dean's stubborn, so Sam knows that this will have to suffice.

"Can't frame a bottle, dumbass." Dean retorts, but his eyes are smiling, so Sam decides any possibility of a real argument is gone.

Sam tosses Dean a small grin so his brother knows that there's no hard feelings, and then he goes back to staring out the window. "Jesus," he sighs as he watches the snow fall. Only, it's not really falling anymore. More accurately, it's hurtling through the air at about 70 miles an hour. Again, he feels that familiar pull, deep underneath his skin. He feels nauseous suddenly.

_Keep staring, Sam. The snow obviously makes you feel so much better._

Sam's not sure if the sarcastic voice in his head was his own, or if it was Lucifer's. Either way, he didn't like it.

"Looks like the blizzard's hit," Dean says matter-of-factly, also glancing out the window. Sam stands up and closes the curtains. Dean looks as if he's about to protest, but maybe he sees something on Sam's face because he closes his mouth and doesn't argue. Instead, he says, "At least the motel's warm."

"Yeah." But Sam still feels cold. Dean looks warm, though, so Sam decides the cold isn't real

and crosses the room to sit next to Dean on the bed. He can never tell if what he's feeling is real or not these days. He hasn't been sure since he started seeing Satan playing golf in Bobby's house. Maybe the heat of the cage altered his brain's perception of what is warm and what isn't. Maybe that's why he always feels cold.

Dean puts an arm around Sam's waist and pulls him closer. "You alright? You seem kinda down."

"Bad day," Sam whispers. That's all he needs to say, because Dean knows what that means. Sam leans his head against Dean's and closes his eyes. Comforting, he thinks. Not necessarily a remedy, because not even Dean is therapeutic on days like today. But comforting, all the same.

"You know, I don't care what's in your veins, Sam."

_Yeah, I know. _He doesn't feel any better. Words can't help him, because he sees them as they are. They're just words. After all, how can sounds heal? Sam never understood that. He remembers watching a TV show a few years ago; a psychologist explaining that the key to healing was to talk. He tried to talk about it, of course. God only knows how many times Sam's tried to force Dean into talking about his feelings. He always gets brushed off. _No chick-flick moments, Sammy. Focus on the job, Sammy._ He supposes words don't do much for a lot of people. Not hunters, anyway.

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean turns his head and kisses Sam on the mouth, full of fondness and appreciation. Again, it's only comforting. Frustratingly comforting. It's no secret that the bond between Sam and Dean is a little more than just brotherly, which is part of the reason why Sam finds himself needing more.

Not just kissing, or heated make-out sessions when they're desperate and lonely. Not just the sex. He's not sure exactly what more he needed, but he did know that he was tired of feeling this way. If Dean could do the impossible and cure him of this disease, then maybe that would be it. It'd be over.

_But nothing ever really ends, does it?_

The room is darker now that the curtains are shut. By now, the wind had picked up, so much so that they can hear the _whoosh_ing that is, no doubt, toppling over small trees. Sam doubts it'd get strong enough to deal too much major damage, but from the way the lights in the motel room are flickering, it'll settle at least a good score.

Sam takes another long swig of his beer, surprised when he realizes it's already three quarters of the way gone. Irritated, he downs the rest of it. It doesn't do much for him.

"Slow down," Dean cautions.

"Why should I?" Sam growls. "You never care how much I drink."

"Because," his brother retorts. "you're gonna be a pain to deal with if you get drunk and I'm stuck here and can't leave."

Of course, Sam feels another flush of hurt. Irrational. He knows that Dean doesn't really mind him on the few occasions that he gets drunk. In fact, his brother sometimes enjoys it, tells him that he's 'much more fun and less bitter.' Although, Sam's not really bitter. His outlook on life, generally, is corrupt, but not too pessimistic. That's only on days like today, where he's more focused on blood than saving people. It's just as well that they're not hunting anything right now. "It's just one beer," he mumbles.

"Yeah, cause you sure as hell weren't gonna go for another one."

A hot flash of anger curls deep in his belly. _So what? _"You know what, Dean, fuck you." He breaks away from Dean's side and stands up. "If you knew what it was like..." he knows he sounds like a petty teenage girl, but he doesn't care. How dare Dean judge him when he doesn't even know how it feels?

Dean is staring at him, a mixture of confusion and concern on his face and that's when Sam realized that he's crying. That only makes him more angry, and he's about to break something when he's engulfed in Dean's arms.

Frustrated, he tries to pull away, but Dean's not having it and holds on tighter. When Sam finally gives up, he's sobbing into Dean's neck while cursing himself for being such a baby.

A few minutes pass, and Sam's sobs ease, but there are still tears flowing down his face.

"I can't help you, Sam. You know this, right?" Dean asks. There's a sort of careful regret in his voice. Sam knows how much it hurts Dean to know that he's powerless to help his little brother.

Sniffling, Sam mutters a "yeah." This has been going on for years now, ever since Azazel told him about the demon blood, and the demon army, and his supposed 'destiny' to become the boy king. That was the day it all fell away for him, and his 'bad days' when he first found out were actually 'bad weeks' because of the shock of the revelation. He guesses he should feel grateful that the bad days only come around only every so often, but why should he feel grateful when no one else in the world feels this way? _Only me, _he thinks bitterly. _The last of the special children, the only freak left in this god-forsaken world and I'm _still_ alive._

He wonders why that is.


End file.
